Part 26 (1/2)

”That was me,” Mary acknowledged. ”A simple controlling manipulation. By that time I kind of understood what was going down.

”But then you manifested on the physical, didn't you?” she went on. ”You made yourself visible to her, and you spoke to her. Didn't you?”

He nodded. ”Shamans can do that, though, right?”

”Yes, but . . . drek, Falcon, they've got to learn to be able to do it. Everything you did tonight . . . It's like, it's no big fragging deal to ride a bike, but what you did- it's like some guy who's never ridden before swinging onto a combat bike and doing trick riding stunts!” She shook her head in amazement. ”We've got to talk about this.”

”Later.” He jumped to his feet. ”Sly went down. We've got to find her. Where the frag was that?”

Mary paused for a moment. ”That place we saw-Cheyenne Chain and Wire. I know it. It's south of town, near I-80. Industrial area.”

”Take me there,” he said flatly, heading for the door.

Mary hesitated for a moment, then, with a shrug, followed him out.

Falcon didn't know how Mary had sweet-talked the bartender-Cahill, she said his name was-into lending her his bike, and right then he didn't care. He sat on the back of the rumbling hog, his arms locked tight around the shaman's waist.

She was a good driver, not aggressive, not into high speeds or anything flashy, but stable and steady. Safe. Right now Falcon would probably have wanted to trade a little safety for some more speed. He knew enough, though, not to be a back-seat driver.

It took only a few minutes to reach the industrial area. The feel of the place-abandoned buildings, industrial trash, scavengers in the alleys-was right, even though he didn't recognize anything directly. Then Mary was cruising slowly past the front of Cheyenne Chain and Wire.

”She started off into the alley behind this building,” Mary said.

”Which way did she go?” Falcon asked. ”And how far?”

Mary shrugged. ”I don't know. We'll just have to search.” She turned the bike down the next street, cut into the alley behind the foundry.

A few minutes later-the minutes feeling like hours to Falcon-they found her. Face-down in a pile of refuse, a rat the size of a malnourished beagle sniffing at her. As Falcon ran up, the rat seemed to consider taking him on to protect what had to be enough food to last a month. But then the creature apparently decided discretion was the better part of valor, and made itself scarce.

Falcon crouched beside Sly, grabbed her wrist, felt for a pulse. It was there-fast, but not strong. Mary squatted next to him, laid a hand on the fallen woman's shoulder. ”How is she?” Falcon demanded.

”You could probably find out yourself,” Mary said cryptically. But then she closed her eyes and slowed her breathing. After a moment she looked up. ”Not good. Alive, but drek-kicked.”

”Can you help her? Shamans can heal, can't they?”

”I can help her,” Mary acknowledged. She glanced around. ”But this ain't the best place.” She hesitated. ”We can carry three on the bike-just-but we can't go fast and we can't go far. Where do you want to take her?”

It was Falcon's turn to pause. The motel was too far and perhaps too dangerous, but what other choice did he have? If Sly still wanted to go through with this drek about cracking into Zurich-Orbital-a.s.suming she didn't flatline, of course-she'd need her deck. Which was back at the motel. And the motel was much too far to take a wounded woman three-up on a bike.

”Can you wait here with her?” he asked. ”I'll take the bike and go get the car.”

Mary nodded.

”They might come looking for her.”

The shaman smiled. ”If they do, they'll find more than they bargained for. I'll summon a city spirit. It can conceal and protect us while you're gone.”

”Good,” Falcon said. ”I'll be back quick as I can.” As he swung aboard the bike and peeled out of there, he heard Mary begin to sing a strange, rhythmic song.

He was expecting some kind of trouble. Somebody trying to stop him from returning with the car, loading Sly into it, and cruising back to the motel. h.e.l.l, he was almost looking forward to it. He was cranked up, out on the pointy end, ready to kick some hoop. His machine pistol was locked and loaded on the seat next to him, and he found himself humming the song of Wolf through his clenched teeth.

But n.o.body tried to slot with them. In fact n.o.body paid them the slightest heed. Even when he carried the limp figure of Sly from the car into the motel room. Somebody was walking through the parking lot during the whole procedure, but the slag didn't even look their way. Falcon wondered if maybe Mary's city spirit was still looking out for them. He set Sly gently down on the bed, while Mary locked the door behind them.

Sly looked like drek-face pale and drawn, skin almost yellow. While carrying her, he'd felt tremors shooting through her muscles. And her flesh was cold. Like Nightwalker when he died. With an effort, Falcon forced that memory away.

He turned to Mary. ”Fix her up,” he said gruffly. Then, more tentatively, ”Please?”

He tried to watch and learn as Mary sat cross-legged on the bed beside Sly, ran her small hands gently over his chummer's body, and began to sing.

But he couldn't. He couldn't sit still. He was filled with energy-energy to burn-and nothing to burn it on. So he paced and he fumed. He pictured Knife-Edge's face twisting in agony as he pumped bullet after bullet into the Amerindian runner's belly. Pictured him engulfed in flame, screaming as he burned like the woman in the torture room. Pictured him moaning in fear as his lifeblood ran into the gutter and he bled himself dry.

He couldn't bear to look at his chummer's pale face. She looked so young, so helpless, lying there. And that was perhaps the biggest crime of all that Knife-Edge had to atone for. He'd taken a confident, competent woman and turned her into this.

Why does it matter so much? he asked himself. I didn't know her from squat a week ago. She shouldn't mean anything to me.

But she did, of course. They were working together toward the same goal. They trusted each other, depended on each other. She is of my pack, he'd told Wolf. And that was the truth, simple and plain. He sat on the other bed, facing away from Mary and Sly. The Dog shaman's song filled his ears, and dire imaginings filled his mind.

Finally Mary's song faded away. He was scared to turn, to look. But he had to.

Sly still lay unmoving, but her color had returned to normal. Sitting next to her, Mary looked tired, her face sheened with sweat.

”Is she ...?” Falcon couldn't finish the question.

Mary just nodded.

Falcon came over and sat on the edge of the bed beside his chummers. He reached out, brushed a lock of hair back from Sly's face. ”Sly,” he said softly.

And her eyes opened. For a moment they darted about wildly, clouded with terror. Then they fixed on his face.

She smiled. A tired, worn smile, but a smile just the same. ”It was you,” she said weakly. ”It was real.”

He didn't trust himself to speak, just nodded. His eyes were watering, and he scuffed the back of his hand across them. It's all this blasting around when I should be sleeping, he told himself.

”How are you feeling?” Mary asked.

Sly smiled up at the young woman. ”Good,” she said. ”Better than I have any right to expect.” She paused. ”You were there too, weren't you? I felt you.” Mary nodded. Sly turned to Falcon. ”How?”

It was Mary who answered. ”Your chummer's walking the path of the shamans,” she said quietly. ”He sings the song of Wolf.”

Falcon saw Sly's eyes widen, full of unspoken questions. Then she smiled. ”Hidden depths, Falcon,” she said. ”Hidden depths.” Cautiously, she pushed herself upright. ”Anything else happen that I should know about?”

31.

0521 hours, November 16, 2053 At the suggestion of the young woman whose name Sly learned was Mary Windsong, they picked up and moved. Sly was pretty sure she hadn't said anything to her torturers about the motel-if she had, the three of them would already have been blown to drek-but it didn't make sense to take any chances they could avoid. Mary led the way, riding a hog much too big for her, her long braid trailing back in the wind. Falcon had driven the Callaway, Sly sitting in the pa.s.senger seat, her cyberdeck clutched protectively in her lap. They'd gone to some little tavern with the improbable name of The Buffalo Jump, then installed themselves in the tiny back room.

Sly was feeling better-almost back to normal, she had to admit. Sometimes she still felt tremors in her muscles, and sometimes when she shut her eyes-even if just for a moment-images from the simsense torture came back and she'd have to smother a scream. What would happen when she went to sleep? she wondered.